


Broken Merry-Go-Round

by orphan_account



Category: Olympics RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: Break Up, Families of Choice, Friends to Lovers, Infidelity, M/M, Mpreg, Older Man/Younger Man, Unconventional Families, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:12:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2370623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unforeseen pregnancy and a stormy night forever intertwines Conor's life with Michael's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

Michael doesn’t question why Conor Dwyer is standing on his front porch at three in the morning in the middle of a downpour of epic proportions. He just steps aside and lets the younger man slip past him and into the condo. Conor doesn’t have anything with him; not even so much as a backpack. All he’s got are the clothes he’s wearing. Stella bounds down the stairs at the sound of the front door opening, Herman lumbering down after her. The dogs mill around Conor’s legs waiting to be petted while Michael helps him untangle himself from the black hoodie he’s wearing, which is now fairly soaked with rain. Conor sobs; a little hiccuping sound deep in his chest, before bursting into full blown tears.

“It’s okay,” Michael says gently, trying to think of something comforting to say as he wipes away Conor’s tears. What he comes up with is, “You’re with me now. Everything’s gonna be okay. I’m right here, Conor.” He opens his arms slightly, offering a hug. Conor’s whole body just _folds_ and suddenly Michael’s got a hundred and ninety four pounds of dead weight to support.

“I’m scared, Mike,” Conor sobs into Michael’s chest. “I’m so scared.”

“Why are you scared?” Michael asks. “Why are you here?”

Conor doesn’t say anything, just takes one of Michael’s hands and slips it under his wet t-shirt, presses it against the clammy skin of his abdomen. Michael gasps in shock when he feels the distinct curve of a barely there baby bump.

“What am I gonna do, Mike?” Conor says, tears running down his face. “What am I gonna do? I tried to tell him; I tried but he wouldn’t listen and now...” Conor’s voice trails off into another sob that wracks his whole body.

“Don’t worry about that.” Michael says, pulls the younger swimmer closer. “We’ll worry about that later.”

“But he doesn’t want it,” Conor tries to explain. “He doesn’t want it. He sent me away. Said to not come back. Oh God, Michael. I can’t do this alone. I just can’t.”

“Hush now,” Michael tells him, gathering Conor up into his arms bridal-style. “We’ll figure this out. Together. I promise. But for now we need to get you warm or you’ll get sick.”

“But he… He-” Conor tries to say.

“Fuck him,” Michael says vehemently. “You’re with me now and everything’s gonna be fine. Now let’s get you warm.”

“Okay,” Conor nods, rests his head on Michael’s shoulder.

It takes half an hour to get Conor dried off, into some sweatpants and Michael’s favorite U of M t-shirt, and then finally settled into Michael’s bed. Both Stella and Herman take up positions at the end of the bed as if they know that Conor is in need of guarding. Once Conor has fallen into a fitful sleep Michael exits the room as quietly as he can and heads downstairs. He grabs his iPhone and presses the number two on his speed dial. The person on the opposite end of the call picks up after two rings.

“What is it, Michael?” Bob Bowman asks, forgoing the usual salutation due to the early hour.

“I’ve got Gregg Troy’s latest boy-toy sleeping in my bed,” Michael sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bob says.

“Conor Dwyer,” Michael answers. “He’s here in Baltimore. In my bed, to be specific.”

“Really now?” Bob quieres.

“Yeah, and that’s not all,” Michael sighs again.

“It gets worse?”

Michael makes an affirmative noise in the back of his throat, says, “The kid’s knocked up, Bob. I figure he tried to tell Troy and the bastard threw him out. Probably expected someone else to clean up his mess.”

“Is that something you’re gonna do?” Bob asks. “You gonna clean up his mess?”

“I guess I am,” Michael says. “I don’t know much, but I know that this kid is scared to death and alone and the first person he came to was me. There’s gotta be a reason for that.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Michael. You have to think about training, about Rio.” Bob reminds him.

“Rio is the last thing on my mind right now,” Michael confesses. “Conor needs me and I’m not gonna sit back and watch him go through this alone.”

“Okay,” Bob acquiesces. “You’ve got a week, Michael. That’s seven days to sort this shit out and get your ass back in the pool. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” Michael says. “We’re clear.”

“G--ood,” Bob says through a yawn. “Now get some sleep.”

“You too,” Michael says, then hangs up. He sighs, scrubs one hand over his face, and marches back upstairs.

Michael slips into the unoccupied side of the bed with as little movement as necessary in hopes of getting some shut eye. Beside him, Conor takes in a deep and sudden breath, a whine caught in the back of his throat. Michael looks over and sees that the younger man is still asleep but most likely having an extremely bad dream. He takes Conor into his arms for the second time since he arrived and cradles him close. It doesn’t occur to Michael that he could’ve just slept in the guest bedroom until the next morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unforeseen pregnancy and a stormy night forever intertwines Conor's life with Michael's.

* * *

The morning brings with it the unpleasant sound of Conor retching up the contents of his stomach into the toilet of the master bath. Stella and Herman have finally moved from their place guarding the bed only to take up positions on either side of the bathroom door, reminding Michael of the guards outside Buckingham Palace that wear those huge black furry hat thingies and aren’t allowed to move.

Conor continues to make that horrible sound as he vomits- _whrettt, whrettt, whrettt,_ \- and Michael grimaces because, _ewww puke_ , but then he remembers why Conor’s barfing and immediately gets out of bed to see if he can help. He kneels down beside the younger swimmer on the cold tile floor and mostly just rubs a hand up and down Conor’s back and tells him everything’s gonna be alright.

“You’re with me now, remember?” Michael says as he smoothes back Conor’s hair from where it’s plastered to his forehead by cold sweat. “You’re gonna be just fine.”

Eventually Conor’s stomach settles and Michael gets him up off the bathroom floor. Conor brushes his teeth with Michael’s toothbrush and lets Michael lead him downstairs into the living room. Conor takes a seat in one of the plush leather armchairs arranged on each side of the couch, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs. Michael heads into the kitchen for a few minutes and comes back with a mug of what appears to be tea.

“Thank you, Mike” Conor says when Michael sets the steaming cup before him on the coffee table. “Thank you for everything.”

Michael sits down on the couch, asks, “Is it okay to talk about why you’re here?”

Conor nods, solemnly says, “Not much to talk about. We fucked. I got pregnant. I told Gregg and he didn’t want anything more to do with me. He gave me five hundred dollars to _‘take care of it.’_ I don’t believe in abortion and I didn’t have anywhere to go so I used the money to buy a plane ticket. I could’ve ended up anywhere but Baltimore just happened to be the next available flight. Lucky me, right?”

“Yeah,” Michael answers. “I suppose that was lucky. I hate to ask, but… was there honestly no one you could go to for help in Florida?”

“No, there wasn’t.” Conor sighs. “Gregg runs a tight ship. If any of the other guys helped me Gregg would find out and give them Hell for it.”

“What about your family?” Michael asks. “Your parents?”

“My parents disowned me last year when I told them about my relationship with Gregg. Said they didn't think it was right; him being older and married and all. You’re kinda all I got in this world right now, Mike.” Conor smiles sadly. “Well, you and whoever’s living in here” Conor puts a hand over his stomach, indicating to the child developing inside of him. “We’ll be alright, won’t we? We’ll figure everything out together just like you said?”

“Of course we will,” Michael says resolutely. “I promise.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unforeseen pregnancy and a stormy night forever intertwines Conor's life with Michael's.

* * *

As it turns out, morning sickness can strike at any time of the day which is why Conor is once again in the bathroom hurling up the tea Michael made him as well as the saltines he forced Conor to eat just about an hour ago. “Dear God,” Conor groans, resting his head against his arm that’s propped up on the rim of the toilet. He manages to say, “So. Much. Barf.” and then goes right back to heaving.

“I gotta make a call,” Michael says from his position in the doorway. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“Yeah” Conor responds, waving one hand in a shooing motion. “Go ‘head. Not movin’ for a while anyway.”

“M’kay,” MIchael says. “Just holler if you need me.” Conor nods, turns an unhealthy shade of green, and ends up with his face back in the bowl of the toilet. Michael grabs his phone, makes his way downstairs, lets the dogs out to do their business. He dials a familiar number, tapping his bare foot against the floor in annoyance as it rings once, twice, three times before the recipient of the call answers. “Your coach is a fuckin’ sleazebag and a half,” Michael snarls into the phone once the person he’s calling picks up. “He’s an asshole! He’s scum! No. He’s lower than scum! I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fuckin’ fire and I just drank my bodyweight in Gatorade.”

“What up to you too, dude,” Ryan Lochte says. “I guess that Conor’s called you considering the subject of your verbal diarrhea.”

“Conor didn’t just call me,” Michael seethes. “He hopped on a fuckin’ plane and is currently barfing up a kidney in my goddamn bathroom.”

“Oh,” Ryan says with surprise in his voice. “So that’s where he went.”

“So that’s where he went? _So that’s where he went_?” Michael’s so mad that he swears he can actually feel his blood boiling. “Is that all you have to say for yourself? Is that all the concern you have for someone who considers you their best friend?”

“Look, I’m sorry Bro, but I couldn’t get involved,” Ryan says. “Gregg’s got my balls in a vice on this one. And it’s not just me. It’s everybody on the team. He’s got dirt on all of us, like, career-ending type dirt. Unless we go along with what he wants, we’re all fuckin’ screwed.”

“Don’t you dare _‘Bro’_ me right now, Ryan Lochte,” Michael hisses into the phone. “You’re not my Bro, and you’re certainly not Conor’s. You’re a fucking coward. You’re worried about your career? Well what about Conor’s career? Huh? Did you ever pull your head out of your own ass and think of that?”

“Mike, man, come on,” Ryan pleads. “It ain’t like that.”

“Yes it fucking is, Ryan” Michael says. “You might be too chickenshit to stand up to Gregg Troy but that doesn’t mean I am. I’m gonna do what you should’ve done from day one. I’m gonna be a true friend and stand by Conor no matter what happens. And you can tell that pederast you call a coach that if he has a problem with that then he can get down on his knees and suck my fuckin’ dick because I’m Michael _fucking_ Phelps and I ain’t fuckin’ scared of him!”

Michael ends the call by throwing his iPhone against the nearest wall so hard that the device leaves a considerably sized dent in the plaster. He closes his eyes and counts to ten, then twenty, then ten again because he can’t afford to punch something and break his hand like he did right before Beijing. Michael lets out a frustrated sigh and scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. His hands come away wet because he’s so angry he’s begun to cry a little bit. He looks up from the spot on the carpet he’s been staring at and discovers that Conor is standing just a few feet away.

“How much of that did you hear?” Michael asks.

“Enough,” Conor murmurs softly. He steps up into Michael’s space, wraps his arms around Michael’s neck and just lingers there until Michael hugs him back. “I’m sorry about all of this,” Conor whispers into the small space between them. “I didn’t mean to complicate your life with all of my bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit, it’s a baby,” Michael says, pulling Conor even closer. “And you don’t have to be sorry. I made you a promise and I’m gonna keep it. Besides, I know what it’s like to grow up with only one parent around. That’s not something I’m gonna let happen if I can help it.”

“What do you mean?” Conor asks.

“I mean that I’m gonna be there for you, just like I told Ryan,” Michael answers in a determined tone. “I’m gonna stand by you.”

Conor’s voice shows just how shocked he is when he cautiously asks, “Michael, are you saying that you’re in this for the long run? Are you saying that you’re gonna help me raise this baby?”

“Yes, Conor,” Michael answers. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”


End file.
